


far from the shallow now

by ailurea



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bodyguard Shiro, First Time, Frottage, Light Angst, M/M, Paparazzi AU, Size Kink, Stomach Bulge, celebrity keith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 17:46:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18393302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ailurea/pseuds/ailurea
Summary: Shiro never thought he’d have so much trouble staying professional in his role as personal bodyguard.He should have realized long ago that he never stood a chance against Keith.





	far from the shallow now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Joltikon](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Joltikon).



> For [joltikon](https://twitter.com/joltikon), who requested Shiro and Keith's first time from her wonderful paparazzi AU.  
> Thank you for letting me play in your world! ♥
> 
> And thank you as always to the [heart hotel (allie, cai, and faia)](https://heart-hotel.carrd.co/) for editing! ♥
> 
> \----
> 
> **Content Warning |** physical violence; mentions of sexual harassment; mentions of non-consensual drug use

Shiro likes to consider himself a professional.

He likes to, but he can’t. Not when he’s looking at Keith to _look at him_ as much as he is to protect him.

Keith is standing bent over the glass railing of the VIP section of the club, watching the gyrating masses below and swaying his hips to the heart-pounding bass. Shiro, sitting on the couch by the railing, has a first-row seat to Keith’s leather-clad ass swaying in his face.

If Shiro were a professional, he wouldn’t be sitting here daydreaming about licking a hot trail up the curve of Keith’s naked spine. He wouldn’t be fantasizing about the way it would feel to palm the firm muscles of Keith’s ass and squeeze. He definitely wouldn’t be contemplating the consequences of going over and pressing himself against Keith’s back, sneaking a hand down Keith’s leather shorts, and making him come all over himself in their darkened balcony above the club floor.

Shiro’s not a professional. He’s a very gay disaster who needs a cold drink, a cold shower, and a cold turkey break from Keith to reboot his brain so that he can get back to focusing on guarding him instead of fucking him.

And of course Keith doesn’t make it easy. At all.

As if he can sense Shiro’s thoughts, Keith arches his back more and looks at Shiro over his shoulder. He’s ethereal in the glow of the gaudy fluorescent lights flashing from the dance floor, eyes glinting with every color under the sun and lips shiny and slightly parted. His red halter top hangs loose from his body—and it barely covers his back in any case. It’s hardly better than the scarf that started this whole thing.

Shiro’s heart diverts all its energy to sending blood to his dick. If he moves, he’s just going to draw attention to it. He keeps himself as still as possible as cold sweat breaks out on the back of his neck.

After a moment of watching, Keith rises and makes his way back to the couch. He plants his stocking-covered knees on either side of Shiro’s lap and drapes his arms over his shoulders. His hips continue to trace the rhythm of the music in the air, blessedly far away from Shiro’s growing hardness.

“Dance with me,” Keith says, sliding a hand down Shiro’s chest.

Keith’s breath smells like alcohol, but Shiro’s watched each of his drinks like a hawk. He may be a bit tipsy, but he's far from drunk. Too far from drunk for Shiro to excuse the fingers trying to unbutton his shirt.

Shiro closes his hand around Keith’s, stopping it from wandering.

Keith switches their grip and draws Shiro’s hand back to rest on Keith’s hip. “Dance,” he says again.

Dancing means touching and sweating and grinding and all the things that Shiro’s not allowed to have. He squeezes Keith’s hip. “Go. I’ll watch you from here.”

“That's no fun.”

“Having fun isn’t in my job description.”

Keith pouts. Shiro works hard to focus on the conversation and not on how much he wants to ruin the perfect glossy sheen of Keith’s bottom lip.

“You're always working when we're together,” Keith says. He drapes himself dramatically over Shiro and sighs into the skin of his neck. It sends shivers down his spine.

“That's because you're my job, Keith.”

It’s something he’s sure Keith is well aware of. It’s the only reason Keith acts this way around him, after all.

Shiro’s safe for him.

Keith’s growing fame has lost him the luxury of casual intimate contact with strangers, but Shiro’s different because of his position. Keith can flirt with him, tease him, touch him—anything he wants, emboldened by the knowledge that nothing’s going to happen to him because of it.

Shiro doesn’t have to put up with it—entertaining Keith isn’t exactly in his job description either—but he knows what it’s like to miss physical intimacy. He’d be lying if he said Keith wasn’t fulfilling a need for him, as well.

It’s why he’ll bask in the warmth of Keith’s body beside his, even if he’ll never seek it out for himself. There are boundaries, and they’ve already crossed them once. Shiro’s continued employment—and his heart, if he’s being honest with himself— can’t afford a second lapse in judgment.

Keith’s been quiet, fiddling with the collar of Shiro’s dress shirt and the knot of his tie. He tilts his head up and catches Shiro’s gaze. There’s something heady and dangerous in his eyes and Shiro swallows and anchors his hips against the back of the couch because they really, really want to go places they shouldn’t.

He needs air. So badly.

“Kiss me,” Keith says quietly, hooking his finger in the space between Shiro’s throat and his tie.

It’s like a dream and a nightmare rolled into one. “I can’t.”

“We’ve already done it.”

“We shouldn’t have.”

Keith pulls back. He looks displeased—annoyed, maybe, that Shiro won’t bend to this when he’ll bend to anything else.

Boundaries, Shiro reminds himself. He’ll be Keith’s toy, but Keith can’t play with him until he breaks.

“Drink with me, then.” Keith fixes Shiro with a hard look. “Don’t try to tell me you can’t do that, either.”

God does he want to. He shouldn’t, but he wants to.

Keith has a sixth sense for weakness. He doesn’t wait for a verbal response; he looks past Shiro and raises his hand to signal another drink order.

Shiro’s opportunity to escape has arrived. He tucks his shoulders in and slides off the couch through the gap between Keith’s legs before he thinks too hard about it. Keith stares at him like he’s crazy, which—well, he’s going a bit mad with lust. He can’t deny that.

“Just going to the bathroom,” Shiro says, already standing. Keith should be safe ordering drinks for a minute while he clears his head, but it won’t hurt to appease him a bit. “Get me a whisky.” He skedaddles before Keith can respond.

The club’s bathroom smells like literal shit, but it's the breath of fresh air that Shiro needs regardless. He hides in the stall and contemplates what his life has come to. Celebrity bodyguard was never on the list of careers he saw himself having. He fell into it by accident, much the same way that he fell into love by accident.

Sometimes he wishes it were just lust. Things would be a lot easier for him if he could operate with blatant disregard for Keith’s feelings.

In any case, Shiro suspects the word _love_ doesn’t hold value to Keith anymore, not when he hears it thousands of times a day. He doesn't need the shallow adoration of another enthralled fan or to hear a four-letter word whose meaning has been long stripped away. He needs a friend. Someone he can trust.

Shiro can be that, at least.

His contemplations are interrupted by a growing swell of the voices of the crowd, and the distinct sound of a name— _Kogane_.

Shit.

Shiro unlocks the stall door and sprints out of the bathroom, ignoring the guy by the urinals who says, “Dude, gross,” as he leaves.

He doesn't have time to fake washing his hands. He shouldn’t have left Keith alone, he realizes now—not with the mood he was in.

This club is one of Keith’s regular haunts; everyone knows not to make a scene about him unless he's making it himself. But he has a track record of taking a turn on the pole because he has the strength and flexibility for it and shaking his ass on tables because he knows it's nice. Shiro usually has to put an end to things before they get so scandalous that they go viral.

He should have expected Keith would act out after not getting the attention he wanted from Shiro. Keith always fights for what he wants.

But Shiro doesn’t expect to come out to an actual fight.

He pushes his way through the crowd to find Keith in the center, facing off against a guy in the middle of the dance floor. There's a fresh bruise shining on his left cheek that sparks Shiro’s anger in an instant. As Shiro arrives, the guy rushes at Keith, shoving him back, and the crowd shouts and parts around them as the guy pushes Keith against the bar. It’s a poor move on the guy’s part; Keith braces himself against the counter and uses the leverage to kick the guy solidly in the stomach, sending him sprawling back.

“Ooh!” the crowd cheers in unison. Some people have cell phones out, and Shiro has seen more than enough.

The guy moves back towards Keith again, and Shiro steps up in front of him. “Get out.”

The guy sneers. “Figures he can't even finish his own fights.”

“He can,” Shiro says. He doesn’t know what started this, but he does know that Keith is one minute and a viral video from sending this guy flat on his ass. “You're not worth it.”

The guy snarls and rears his fist back for a punch, but it’s sloppy and tired. Shiro catches it and twists him to the ground in a moment. The bar’s security finally rushes over, helping to take the guy off Shiro’s hands.

Shiro stalks over to Keith, using his body to shield Keith’s smaller form from the eyes and cameras surrounding them. “Let’s go,” he says quietly.

Keith takes one look at Shiro’s face and makes his way out of the bar without a word, Shiro following behind. He stays quiet, inspecting his appearance with his selfie camera as Shiro calls the car over. Shiro’s grateful for it. Every glimpse of the purple mark on Keith’s cheekbone sends him closer to snapping, and he can’t imagine anything Keith would say could help defuse it.

They slide into the backseat when the car pulls up, and Keith looks out the window as the car starts moving and Shiro raises his phone to his ear.

“I saw,” Krolia says as soon as she picks up, and Shiro doesn’t expect any less from her. He’s sure she has people crawling through the internet at all hours, searching for signs of Keith.

“I'm sorry,” he says, knowing it's not enough when he's fucked up the core part of his job.

He’s not sure Krolia knows that he’s given into Keith’s whims before in the backseat of this very car, but ever since the slip-up he’s been on thin ice. Any second now the ice will break and he’ll be plunged back into the frigid waters of unemployment—accompanied this time, perhaps, by Krolia blacklisting him for unprofessionalism across the personal security industry.

“Let me talk to him,” Krolia says.

He hands the phone over without a word.

Keith frowns at him as he takes it and looks at the name on the screen. “Hi, Mom. I'm fine.” He looks out the window as he talks. The pale city lights highlight the glimmering of his eyes and the bruise on his cheek as he pauses, listening to Krolia. “I don't want to talk about it.” Another long pause. “I know.” His eyes flick to Shiro. “That I don't want to talk about it.”

There's a longer pause this time, and Keith’s eyes fall to his lap the way they do when he feels bad about something. He's probably getting the lecture from Krolia, which means Shiro should be easier on him. “I get it, okay? I'm hanging up now. Bye, Mom.”

He hands the phone back to Shiro, then presses the button to contact the driver beyond the privacy screen. “We’re both staying at Shiro’s tonight.”

“We are not,” Shiro says.

Keith glances at him, then away. “The lighting was bad. For the videos. I don't want her to see.”

Shiro's heart breaks. It's hard to remember when Keith is being a brat, but at his core he's kind and thoughtful—far more so than Shiro originally thought when he first took the job.

“It'll look worse tomorrow,” he says gently.

Keith shrugs, a little hitch of his shoulders. “Know where to find a drugstore?”

* * *

Shiro doesn’t think Keith has ever been in a drugstore in his life. But when the driver drops them off at the CVS across the street from Shiro’s apartment complex, Keith only takes a quick glance around before beelining towards the makeup products stacked against the wall. He runs his finger over the bottles of foundation before deftly choosing one.

“You should wear makeup,” Keith says, eyeing Shiro. “You’d look good with some highlighter.”

“I don’t really need to blind people with my cheekbones,” Shiro says. “But thanks for the thought.”

“So you admit you have nice cheekbones.”

They’re a major selling point of his face and sometimes are enough to distract people from the scar blooming across the bridge of his nose. He’s not going to deny it. He shrugs.

Keith hums, then turns back to the shelves to pick a tube of concealer and a few pieces of eye makeup. He also grabs a small pack of makeup remover wipes before they head to the checkout.

The cashier is a bored and tired-looking teenager who stands a bit straighter and narrows her eyes as she looks between Keith’s face and Shiro and the makeup that Keith’s laid out on the counter.

Shiro shuffles awkwardly and tries to make himself smaller. There’s not much he can say that won’t sound bad.

“It wasn’t him,” Keith says, tired.

The cashier doesn’t say anything about it, but she nods and the suspicion in her gaze eases as she finishes ringing them up.

The walk back to Shiro’s apartment is quiet.

Shiro’s given Keith his jacket to help ward off the late-night chill, but Keith bundles himself against Shiro’s side anyways. Keith’s presence is always so large that Shiro’s always startled when he’s reminded how small Keith actually is—like now, when he’s drowning in fabric and tucking his head by Shiro’s bicep.

Shiro draws his arm around Keith to keep him warm for the few minutes it takes to get back to his building.

Keith’s never been to his apartment before; Shiro usually drives himself to and from Keith’s place. He lets Keith in and watches as he surveys the space—the kitchenette and dining table, the bathroom, the small couch and coffee table in one section of the room, and his bed peeking out from behind shoji screens in the other. Keith takes it all in like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen, even though Shiro can’t imagine it’s much different than any other apartment.

Then again, maybe Keith’s never been inside an apartment. Shiro wouldn’t put it past him.

“No bedroom?” Keith says, peeking behind the screens at Shiro’s bed.

“It’s called a studio,” Shiro says.

Keith rolls his eyes at him. “I know what it’s called. Don’t you want a bedroom?”

“It’s just me,” Shiro says, “and most of the day I’m out with you. There’s really no point spending more than I have to on an apartment.”

Keith purses his lips and disappears into the bathroom with his bag of makeup. He’s casting judgment, Shiro’s sure, but at least he’s keeping it to himself.

Shiro goes to his freezer for an ice pack. He wraps it in a spare pillowcase and presses it to Keith’s face when he re-emerges, holding it there until Keith raises a hand to help. “I know your mom already chewed you out for this, but just… be more careful, okay?”

Keith bristles. “If you would’ve just—“ He cuts himself off. “Forget it.”

“I know,” Shiro says. “I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Keith says, skepticism clear in his tone.

“I should’ve been there,” Shiro says. “I shouldn’t have left. I should’ve been looking out for you.”

Keith’s expression dims. “Because I’m your job?”

“You are, Keith,” Shiro says. “I know you’d rather that we were just… friends. But my job is to keep you safe, and I failed today. I might not have a job for much longer.”

“My mom’s not going to fire you,” Keith says.

“I know that’s easy for you to say—“

“She isn’t.”

Shiro runs a hand through his hair. “This isn’t what I wanted to talk about. Keith, this isn’t the first time something’s happened. You got drugged last week, remember?”

“Of course I remember, I was the one drugged,” Keith says, slamming the ice pack down on the dining table. “I’m not gonna run and hide just because some people are being assholes. That’s letting them win.”

“It’s not a game,” Shiro says. “It’s staying safe.”

“If staying safe means giving in to a bunch of dicks with the most fragile masculinities in the entire fucking world then I’m not interested.”

Shiro sighs. “Look, I’m not trying to lecture you. I just want you to consider that people worry about you.”

“Yeah?” Keith’s eyes flash. “Do you worry about me, Shiro?”

It makes Shiro’s blood run hot. “This isn’t a joke, Keith. You could’ve been really seriously injured.”

“I wasn't.”

“But you could have been!” Shiro's voice is too loud. He sighs to release the volume and the tension in his shoulders, then picks up the ice pack again and presses it against the bruise blooming on Keith's cheek. “Just. Think about it, okay?”

Keith presses his hand on Shiro's on top of the ice pack. “I'm not stupid, you know? Or weak. I can handle a couple of creeps.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Shiro says. The heat and pressure of Keith’s hand against his is suddenly all he can focus on.

He’s too close.

He needs to clear his head again.

* * *

Shiro gives Keith some of his smaller clothes to sleep in and instructions to take the bed before he goes and tries to wash the day away in the shower. The steady stream of water does nothing to ease the tiredness from his soul. He throws on his pajamas and resigns himself to a cramped and sleepless night on the couch.

Across the room, his mattress creaks and the sheets rustle. Then Keith’s footsteps pad softly towards him.

Shiro turns his head.

It may be one of Shiro’s smaller shirts, but Keith is still drowning in it, neckline low enough to let his collarbones peek enticingly through. The shirt ends at mid-thigh, and Keith’s still wearing his stockings underneath.

Shiro is very grateful for the blanket draped across his body.

Keith’s gaze is cast down, watching his fingers where he’s picking at the hem of the shirt—a nervous gesture.

Shiro gentles his voice. “Something wrong?”

Keith bites his lip. Then he says without looking up, “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

He’s not apologizing for his actual actions, which Shiro doesn’t really expect from him. He sits up, keeping the blanket draped across his body. “I’m not angry. I just want to know why you’re picking fights. You know how things have been lately.”

Keith shrugs and still doesn’t make eye contact. “You just didn’t want… you didn’t want,” he says, something just this shade of hurt in his tone. There’s a _me_ there that feels unsaid. Shiro couldn’t do what Keith wanted, so Keith went looking for someone else who could?

Shiro doesn’t like the thought of that.

“It’s not your fault,” Keith says, even though Shiro certainly feels like it’s his fault.

“What happened exactly?” Shiro says.

Keith shrugs again. “We were dancing,” he says. “He got handsy. I told him to fuck off, he slapped me, I punched him. You saw the rest.”

There's a lot of new information in that sentence. All of it plunges Shiro back into ice cold rage. “He slapped you?”

Keith startles and looks up at that. “I mean...” He gestures to the mark on his cheek that Shiro had attributed to a punch, not someone _backhanding him on the dance floor_.

He puts his face in his hands, inhales deeply, and holds his feelings in because Keith doesn’t need to see this and think it’s directed at him. He’s frustrated at Keith, yes, but he’s fucking pissed at the asshole who hit him. He’s pissed at himself for making Keith feel the need to put himself in that position.

“Are you… okay?” Keith asks, the most hesitant Shiro’s ever heard him.

“Please don’t do that again,” he says, finally, and meets Keith’s gaze. He’s supposed to be safe for Keith. What good is his self-restraint if it means he ends up being the one who sends Keith straight into danger’s path? “I won’t push you away. So please.”

Keith frowns. “I can’t make you want me,” he says, and there’s something resigned in his voice. “And I—you shouldn’t do anything you don’t want to.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Shiro says.

There’s silence for a moment as Keith watches him. Then he steps closer, closer, closer, until he’s straddling Shiro on the couch, sitting back on his thighs.

It’s like they’re in the club all over again. It’s undeniably more intimate, though, when it’s in the middle of Shiro’s living room, the soft glow of the city lights the only thing illuminating them. When their quiet breathing is the only thing he can hear.

“Keith,” he says softly.

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

Shiro laughs, breathless. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“But do you?” Keith’s voice is more serious than teasing.

Shiro places his hand on Keith’s thigh. He swallows hard as he realizes his hand spans nearly the entire width of it. God, he can’t think when Keith is this close. “You’re beautiful.”

Keith takes the hand on his thigh and drags it up his body and under his shirt so that Shiro’s hand rests against the naked skin of his side. “I’ll show you everything, if you want.”

“We shouldn’t,” Shiro whispers, more to himself than to Keith.

“I don’t give a fuck about that.” Keith’s voice is low. He puts his arms over Shiro’s shoulders. “What do you want, Shiro?”

Shiro runs his hand along Keith’s side, feeling him shiver. He can almost convince himself that this is a good idea. If he can give Keith what he needs, Keith won’t need to go looking for it in someone else—someone else who might hurt him.

Shiro’s heart is getting the raw end of the deal here, but it’s taken a lot already. It can take a lot more.

“Do you want me?” Keith says, and Shiro never stood a chance.

“You know I do.”

“Show me.”

Shiro drops his head to Keith’s chest. “Keith.”

Keith tugs at the hair on the back of his head, dragging his face back up so that their eyes meet. “Show me.”

“Fuck.” Shiro moves the hand on Keith’s side to wrap around his waist and uses the other to grab the back of his head, hauling him in for a bruising kiss. Keith’s body tenses for just a moment at the sudden movement, then relaxes, all his muscles melting into Shiro’s grip.

Keith kisses like someone who’s good at it and knows it. He fists his hands in the longer parts of Shiro’s hair and coaxes his mouth open, turning their kiss into a hot, messy slide of tongues and spit. Keith kisses like he has something to prove.

Shiro drowns in it; even more so when Keith starts grinding slowly against his cock. He thinks, faintly, that he might pass out.

But it’s Keith who pulls away to moan. “Oh my god, Shiro. You’re so hard.”

Shiro, dizzy with want, tucks his head under Keith’s chin and buries his confession in the skin of Keith’s throat. “Been hard all night.”

Keith’s fingernails scrape down his nape. “Since when?”

“Since I first saw you.”

“I was wearing it for you,” Keith says. He pulls back to tug off his shirt and toss it aside. “I was wearing all of it for you.”

Shiro nearly swallows his tongue. Keith’s bare chested now, and he’d taken off his shorts beforehand, leaving only the black garter and panties attached to his stockings. Keith’s erection strains against the fabric, clearly visible behind thin lace. Allura’s design, Shiro thinks dazedly.

Keith spreads his legs wider across Shiro’s lap to show it off.

It works. Shiro can’t tear his eyes away.

Keith sighs and throws his head back, ass continuing its slow grind in Shiro’s lap as he runs his hands across his body and moans. It’s pornographic, and just this side of unnatural. Shiro puts his hands over Keith’s, pulling them away and stilling his movements.

“You don’t have to put on a show for me,” Shiro says quietly. Keith’s entire life is a performance, from the moment he leaves the privacy of his home. He wants this to be private, too.

Keith’s lashes flutter. He looks confused. “I…”

Shiro squeezes his hands. “What do you do when you’re alone?”

“I think about you,” Keith says without hesitation.

It takes all of Shiro’s willpower to not come right this second. “Yeah?” he says in a punched-out whisper. “What about me?”

“Your hands,” Keith says. “They’re so big.” He flushes.

“Where do I touch you?”

Keith takes his hands and draws them to his chest so that his palms curve around the side of Keith’s ribs. Keith’s breath hitches as Shiro’s thumbs stroke over his nipples.

“Like that?” Shiro says quietly.

“So much better,” Keith breathes, grinding down artlessly. He’s not performing now, but Shiro isn’t sure that this is quite Keith, either. His everything is quiet and lacking that certainty in his desires that Shiro’s come to expect.

Shiro wants to distract him into abandon. He flicks Keith’s nipples with his thumbs. He’s sensitive—more sensitive than Shiro is, whimpering at every touch. When Shiro switches to massaging them, Keith’s fingers clutch at his shoulders and his eyes roll back.

“What else?” Shiro says.

“Hm?” Keith blinks at him, eyes glassy.

“What else do I do?” Shiro skims his thumbs over Keith’s nipples again to listen to him whine. “Or do I do this until you come?”

“You could,” Keith says, and Shiro grinds up at the thought of it. “You do, sometimes. If you’re being mean.”

That thought is a lot less attractive than anything else Keith’s said since they started. Shiro’s fingers still. “You think about me being mean to you?”

“When I deserve it.” Keith wiggles in his lap, encouraging him to keep moving. “When I’m being a brat. You wouldn’t be mean just to be mean.”

“I wouldn’t be mean to you at all,” Shiro says. He couldn’t. Keith’s a brat a lot of the time, sure, but he’s lonely and young. Shiro can’t imagine taking him apart with anything but kindness.

“I want you to,” Keith says. He pulls himself closer, grinds down faster and harder in a way that makes Shiro’s pulse race. “You’re always so in control. I think about teasing you so hard you snap. You’d hold me down and tell me that I need to start thinking about the consequences of my actions while you fuck me.”

Keith’s voice and the pressure of his ass on Shiro’s cock are a potent mix, and Shiro wants. He wants so badly. But—

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” Shiro says, squeezing Keith’s hips to hold him still. When it comes to Shiro, Keith’s actions have no consequences—or, at least, not to Keith.

“I know,” Keith says. “That’s why I want you to.”

It’s a safe fantasy, but if Shiro acts on it then it’s not a fantasy anymore—and Shiro can’t be considered safe anymore. “I can’t do that to you.”

“You won’t hurt me, Shiro,” Keith says. “I know you won’t.”

Shiro looks into Keith’s bright, trusting eyes and thinks, _But who’s going to stop you from hurting me?_

It’s a problem for future Shiro. For now, Shiro runs his hands up Keith’s sides, cups his face, and lays a gentle kiss on the bruise on Keith’s cheekbone, an apology. A promise that he won’t let any more harm come to Keith, from others or from himself.

Keith kisses his lips, then starts moving again. It’s all for Shiro’s pleasure; Keith is effortlessly beautiful in his lap, grinding his ass against the hardness of Shiro’s cock. Shiro twines a hand in his hair and pulls him down to deepen the kiss, and Keith gasps into it, fingers curling delicately into Shiro’s shoulders. Where before he was seductive in his confidence, now he’s erotic in his quiet.

Shiro prefers it this way. The feeling that he’s getting a peek behind the frosted glass that Keith puts up around himself.

This private side of him isn’t something Keith shares with many other people. How many people have ever been graced with a moment like this? With Keith, writhing silently in their arms, weak with trust and pleasure?

Unfounded possessiveness streaks through him—for now, at least, he’s the only one allowed to see Keith in this state, he’s the only one who gets to have Keith falling apart in his arms—and it throws Shiro over the edge with force. He crushes Keith to his lips as he comes silently in his pants.

When Shiro breaks from the kiss, Keith doesn’t seem to notice that anything has changed, but Shiro feels more clear-headed off his orgasm. More like he can take care of Keith in the way that he wants without pushing him too far.

He pushes Keith back, repositioning him off Shiro’s cock so that he won’t notice Shiro’s going soft. He reaches down to palm Keith through his panties, and Keith bucks up, pressing heat into his hand. Shiro massages him slowly, watches his face as a flush creeps up his neck and his breathing quickens. He wants to kiss those parted lips, and finds no reason why he shouldn’t—he leans in and captures them with his own, matching the pace and pressure of the kiss with the movements of his hand.

Again, Keith’s the one to break away first.

“You’re teasing me,” Keith whines. “It’s not fair.”

Shiro laughs. “What’s not fair about it?”

“I’m supposed to be the tease.”

“You don’t have to tease me into giving you what you want.” Shiro punctuates his point with another soft kiss. “You just have to ask.”

“I don’t know how,” Keith says quietly, and Shiro wonders how experienced Keith actually is.

“Start small,” he says. “What do you want right now?”

Keith pushes his hips forward, pressing himself against Shiro’s palm. “Touch me.”

Shiro’s already touching him, but he knows what Keith wants and he’s feeling too generous to make him really work for it. Shiro tugs down the hem of the panties. Keith gasps as his cock springs free, and it turns into a choked-off moan as Shiro closes his fist around it. He strokes Keith slowly, letting him feel every inch of the movement. “Good?”

Keith nods.

“Harder?” Shiro murmurs, adjusting his grip as he speaks. “Softer? Faster? Slower? What do you like?”

Keith whines. “I don’t—I don’t know.”

Shiro takes Keith’s hand and pulls it down, wrapping it around his own on Keith’s cock. “This is for you. Teach me how to make you feel good.”

Keith whines again, but he starts moving their joined hands. His grip is a little harder than Shiro’s was; his pace to start, a bit slower. His breathing starts to match the pace of his hands—quickening, quickening, until his chest is heaving and he’s shaking with it, the sheen of sweat on his forehead matching the glistening of precome on his cock. “Shiro—“

“You going to come?”

“No,” Keith says, desperately. He lets go of his cock and grabs Shiro’s shoulders. “No, stop.”

Shiro yanks his hand away—oh fuck, where did he mess up? He’s ready to push Keith off his lap when Keith squeezes his shoulders and says, “Make me come on your cock.”

Shiro laughs as the tension bleeds out of him. “You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”

“Whatever you want,” Keith says, breathy-voiced and heavy-lidded.  “However you want it. Let me feel you.”

“Fuck, Keith.” Shiro’s hands fly to Keith’s hips for something to hold on to. He’s too old for his cock to be getting this hard again, but he also thought he was too old to be coming in his pants, so it looks like his cock just has another mind when it comes to Keith. “You can’t just offer that to anyone.”

“I’m not offering it to anyone.” Keith’s hands skim up his shoulders and rest on the sides of his neck. His nails draw trails of shivers from Shiro’s skin. “I’m offering it to you.”

Shiro lets out a shaky exhale. “You trust me too much.”

“You’ve earned it.” Keith leans in closer, wrapping his arms around Shiro’s neck. “Take me to bed.”

Shiro can’t say no.

He wraps one arm around Keith’s back and the other under his ass and stands, lifting him easily in his arms. Keith squeals, wrapping his legs around Shiro’s torso to keep balanced as Shiro stumbles his way over to the mattress. He lays Keith down on his back in the middle of it and climbs between his legs, running his hands over the smooth nylon on the underside of his thighs as he pushes them up to Keith’s chest.

“Hold them,” he says, and watches as Keith bites his lip and hooks his arms around his knees to keep his legs up.

Shiro’s definitely feeling like a teenager again. He’s already come once, but now the sight of Keith ready and wanting and waiting has him harder than he’s ever been in his life.

He leans down between Keith’s legs and kisses him softly, then tugs his hair back and bites down on his lip until he gasps and arches.

Shiro draws back to admire his work. Keith’s panting through red, kiss-bitten lips. His hair is matting to his forehead, and his cheeks are flushed. He’s halfway to wrecked, and has never been more beautiful. Shiro kisses him again, pressing against him with his entire body this time until Keith moans for it, straining against Shiro’s weight.

“You’re being mean,” Keith gasps when they break apart again. “I thought you said you wouldn’t be mean.”

Shiro kisses a trail down his throat to his chest. “How am I being mean?”

Keith raises his hips. “You’re not _fucking me_.”

Shiro curls a tongue around his nipple, testing, and feels Keith arch his chest forward to meet it. “This doesn’t feel good?”

“It does,” Keith breathes.

Shiro flicks his tongue over the bud to hear him gasp. “Fucking isn’t just about the fucking.”

“That—“ Keith’s breath stutters. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It will.” Shiro runs his hands over Keith’s stockings, hitching his knees up further by his ears. He’s flexible in ways that seem inhuman, and so, so pretty, laid out beneath Shiro in a way that Shiro has never even let himself dream of.

Keith’s flush spreads all the way to his chest, and he squirms beneath Shiro’s gaze. “What?”

“You’re beautiful.”

“You don’t—You don’t have to say that anymore,” Keith says, squirming more. “I’m already in your bed.”

Shiro doesn’t know where Keith’s gotten his ideas of what he should expect from sexual intimacy, but he knows he doesn’t like it. “It’s not just a line to get you naked, you know. It’s the truth. You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. You deserve to hear it all the time.”

“You’re so embarrassing.” Keith turns, hiding his face behind a knee.

“I won’t say it if you don’t want me to,” Shiro says, kissing his shin in apology. He trails his lips up the nylon, then unhooks the suspenders so that he can draw the stocking down with his teeth. He can feel Keith’s full-body shiver, and smiles against Keith’s leg before pulling the fabric free of his foot. He meets Keith’s gaze as he does the same on the other side. Keith’s eyes are wide, pupils blown as Shiro’s teeth scrape against his inner thigh and drag the stocking down.

“Oh,” Keith says quietly as his legs tremble. “ _Oh_.”

Shiro puts his hands over the panties. The length of Keith’s cock peeks out, leaking precome, but his ass remains encased in fabric. He has options—he can have Keith lower his legs so he can take them off properly, or he can just tug them down to Keith’s thighs and leave Keith’s legs trapped together.

But the primal, horny part of his brain has a different idea, and he finds his hands cupping Keith’s ass, fingers digging into the delicate lace.

“Shiro—”

The fabric tears under his hands.

Keith bucks up and shakes like he’s coming. “Holy fuck, Shiro. Did you just—”

Shiro slides his hands under the shredded lace, feeling Keith’s skin hot beneath his palms. “I hope you weren’t too attached to these.”

“Oh my god,” Keith says faintly. He doesn’t sound upset. He sounds aroused beyond belief.

Shiro lets his hand wander closer to Keith’s hole. “Can I touch you?”

Keith spreads his legs wider and whines. “Please.”

He shivers at the press of Shiro’s finger against his puckered entrance, but he’s not as tense as Shiro thought he’d be, and there’s a slickness there that Shiro wasn’t expecting.

Shiro’s heart leaps into his throat. “Keith—”

Keith looks at him with lidded eyes. “Wanted you to fuck me in the club. Wanted to be ready for it.”

Shiro’s finger slips in with little resistance, the way made slick by whatever lube Keith had used to prepare himself before the night had begun. The image flashes in his mind—Keith alone in his bed back at the mansion, a flushed and sweaty mess, opening himself up on his own fingers for Shiro—and he has to take a deep breath to refocus on the way that Keith is clenching underneath him in the present.

“Oh, it’s—it’s bigger than mine,” Keith gasps.

Shiro pulls away and grabs the bottle of lube that he keeps in his nightstand, applying more until his fingers are slippery with it. “Just relax, okay?”

Keith nods.

Shiro slips a finger in again, and bends over Keith to kiss him, swallowing the soft noises he makes as Shiro slowly works him open. His sounds take on a pained edge as Shiro massages his prostate and Shiro slows down in response, lightening his touch until Keith’s relaxing again.

“That’s good,” he murmurs, and Keith whines and wiggles his hips and angles for more.

It’s a powerful position to be in, and a dangerous one. Keith’s lost under Shiro, body and mind yielding to his touch. He’s sure Keith would do anything he asked. He’s sure he wouldn’t even have to ask—his hands could mold Keith to his whims and Keith wouldn’t even think to protest.

It’s too much trust.

Shiro doesn’t know how Keith can place it in anyone, let alone him. It drives him mad with desire—desire and fear that he’s going to screw it all up.

“Stop thinking so much,” Keith says between breaths.

Shiro kisses him carefully. “Don’t let me hurt you.”

Keith shakes his head. “You won’t. I won’t.”

Shiro needs to be closer.

He pulls Keith’s arms away from his legs and hauls Keith back into his lap, letting Keith cling to him as he spreads Keith’s legs with his own and presses his fingers back in. He lives for the way that Keith’s chest heaves against him; is reinvigorated by the soft huffs of breath against his neck and the way Keith’s nails scrape against his back when it becomes too much.

“I want—” Keith says, then he’s wrestling Shiro’s shirt off and pressing his hands and lips against the skin he finds underneath as Shiro fucks him with his fingers. He groans. “Fuck, you’re so hot.”

“Did you think about this too? Touching me?”

“Wanted—wanted to lick you everywhere,” Keith pants. “You get so—so embarrassed. It’s so cute.”

Shiro falters. “Did you just call me cute?”

Keith laughs, breathless. “I love seeing how red you can get. All stammer-y. All I have to do is touch you and you—oh _fuck,_ ” he wails as Shiro speeds up.

“First you said you wanted to tease me so that I’d hold you down and fuck you,” Shiro says. “Now you’re saying you want to tease me because I’m cute when I’m embarrassed. Which is it?”

“Both,” Keith gasps. He’s clinging onto Shiro’s shoulders for dear life, his thighs shaking with the tension of keeping himself open. “Wanna tease you first. See you—ah—see you blush. You’re so pretty, did you know? Mm—fuck, Shiro!” Dark satisfaction curls in Shiro’s gut when Keith has to recompose himself enough to speak again. “You always—you always get so turned on, even if you’re embarrassed. I’d keep touching you, make you so hard you couldn’t—ah—couldn’t think of anything else but fucking me. You wouldn’t be able to wait. We’d have to sneak away, just so you could do it. Ohh, fuck, Shiro, please.”

“Please what?”

“Don’t wanna come like this,” Keith whines as he raises his hips, trying to pull away. “Want you in me. I’ve been waiting so long, please.”

Shiro withdraws his fingers, but doesn’t move to take out his cock. “Come get it, then.”

Keith scrambles for the waistband of his black sweatpants, pushing them down past his hips to uncover his boxers and his cock, hard and thick between the folds of fabric and sticky with the evidence of his first release. Keith’s fingers skim over the mess, wonder on his face. “Did you…”

“Yeah,” Shiro says. There isn’t any use in denying it, not when the proof of Keith’s power over him is plain to see.

“ _Oh_ ,” Keith says, and he sounds wounded. He grasps the length in his hands—and god does it turn Shiro on to realize how large he looks between Keith’s slender fingers. He can’t imagine how he’ll fit inside.

“Lay down,” he says. His voice is rough with arousal.

He’s really doing this.

Keith’s eyes widen and he scoots back on the bed to lay on his back.

Shiro climbs over him and reaches over to his nightstand, snagging a condom from the drawer. He tears it open and rolls it on with practiced efficiency before pushing Keith over onto his side. Keith makes a soft, confused sound that tapers off into contentment as Shiro curls up behind him, slotting himself against Keith’s back. He wraps an arm over Keith’s chest, pushing him over so that they’re pressed together, Keith ending up a little spoon half-pinned against the bed.

“S’nice,” Keith sighs, yielding under Shiro’s weight. He’s warm and soft. Shiro could hold him in his arms forever. “Thought you were gonna fuck me though.”

Shiro noses at his hair. “Patience.” He takes the bottle of lube from the bed and slicks himself up. Then he uses his knee to push Keith’s leg up and out of the way, and positions himself against Keith’s entrance. “You nervous?”

Keith scoffs. “No.” His muscles are practically vibrating with tension.

Shiro runs a hand along his side, soothing. “Breathe. Push back when you’re ready. Okay?”

“I’ve got it,” Keith says, and he certainly sounds confident, even as his body continues to betray him.

Shiro continues to stroke his side as he pushes in slowly, just until his head slips in.

It’s more than enough. Keith whimpers and tenses, clenching tightly around him.

Shiro presses his face into Keith’s hair and makes soothing noises as he runs a hand across Keith’s chest and abdomen. “Relax, baby. You okay?”

“Big,” Keith says, muffled with the way his face is pressed into the pillow. He turns his head a little and says more clearly, “You’re so big.”

Shiro hesitates. This isn’t a new problem for him. “Too much?”

Keith shakes his head.

“Just breathe,” Shiro murmurs. “Don’t worry about taking it all, okay?” He reaches down to take Keith in hand, stroking him slowly to give him another point of stimulation to focus on.

Keith melts in his arms, little by little, and little by little he presses himself back onto Shiro. It’s a slow, quiet process, and from Keith’s whimpers and full-body tremors Shiro’s certain that Keith’s about to give in and come more than once. But Keith’s determination has no equal, and after some time—five minutes, or thirty—they’re pressed flush against each other, Shiro seated all the way. Keith’s breathing is heavy, but slow.

Shiro would be close to coming himself if he weren’t so concerned about how Keith’s taking it.

“How are you doing?” Shiro murmurs.

Keith makes a strangled noise, but it’s not pained.

Shiro laughs quietly. “Is that a good thing?”

“Really good,” Keith breathes. He moves a little—an inch out, an inch back in—and Shiro holds him tightly and groans with it. Groans even more when he feels the press of something under his arm on Keith’s abdomen.

He grabs Keith’s hand, intertwines their fingers, and moves it to press Keith’s hand flat against his own stomach. “Hold still,” he murmurs, then moves slowly, thrusting in and out so that Keith can feel the press of his cock against his hand.

“Fuck,” Keith whispers. “Oh fuck, Shiro, that’s—” His other hand flies to his cock and he grabs onto it, just holding, like he needs to stave off his orgasm right there.

“Look at you, baby,” Shiro says, the wonder in his tone well-deserved. “You’re so good. Can you feel how well you’re taking me?”

“Fuck,” Keith’s eyes roll back, and he squeezes them shut. He starts moving in tandem with Shiro, fucking himself back on Shiro’s cock. “Fuck Shiro, move, please. Please move.”

Shiro holds onto his hip to keep him anchored and starts to increase his depth, pulling out more and more each time. Keith’s breath hitches with every thrust, then Shiro hears it crack into a quiet sob. He freezes. “Keith?”

“Don’t—don’t stop,” Keith says on a gasp, fucking back onto him. “It feels good. So good, Shiro, I swear, oh my god, please don’t stop.”

Shiro moves again, trusting Keith to stop him if it hurts. But Keith doesn’t stop him, and his quiet sobs turn louder until he’s wailing with every thrust, and now that Shiro’s not so worried he can be awed at the fact that he can take Keith apart like this too—he’s not putting on a performance anymore, but he also isn’t trying to quiet his own reactions. He’s past the point of thinking about how he looks or how he sounds. All he has is Shiro, filling him again and again to his breaking point and beyond, and Keith is crying and writhing as he takes every bit of what Shiro gives him.

He’s the most powerful man alive right now, and Shiro moans and pulls Keith closer as he slams himself all the way in and comes harder than he’s ever come in his life. Keith cries for it as Shiro shakes and empties himself, and once Shiro has the sense for it he reaches down to take hold of Keith’s cock, stroking him until he’s screaming out Shiro’s name and arching and spilling all over the sheets.

Shiro comes down, tired and sated, and strokes Keith until his cries subside to quiet whimpers and his breathing mostly evens out. He pulls out and tosses out the condom while Keith’s still relaxed and kisses him softly as he settles him into the bed. He moves to get a towel, but is stopped by a hand on his arm.

“Stay,” Keith says blearily.

“Just going to get something to clean you up,” Shiro says gently.

“No.” Keith tugs on his arm. “Stay.”

Shiro sighs and lets himself be dragged back into the bed. “You’re gonna regret this in the morning.”

“Don’t care,” Keith says, which isn’t a denial—just a problem for future Shiro. He tugs until Shiro lays down next to him again, then lets out a pleased sigh as he curls up against Shiro’s side.

It fills Shiro with a complicated mix of emotions. Pride, that he’s the one who reduced Keith to this quiet, pleased thing. Warmth, that Keith trusts him enough to let him do it. Sadness, that this physical intimacy is the extent of the intimacy that they’ll share.

He won’t act on it, even if that four-letter word is on the tip of his tongue. He’ll do what Keith asks, take what Keith gives him—and that’s it.

Shiro’s the safe choice for Keith. Shiro’s the safe choice, and he loves Keith too much to ask for anything more.

* * *

Morning dawns and, as expected, Keith is grumpy when he wakes up gross and sticky, but his grumpiness is somewhat alleviated when he finds Shiro available for a good-morning kiss that he tries to turn into a good-morning blowjob.

Shiro smiles and pushes his head away. “Aren’t you tired? We did a lot last night.”

“I didn’t suck you off last night,” Keith says, voice still half-groggy with sleep.

“Next time,” Shiro says, and bundles him into the shower before setting off to make them a quick breakfast of eggs and toast. Keith’s still not done with the bathroom when he finishes, so he swings by to check on him.

The bathroom door is open and Keith is holding his tube of concealer and studying the mirror, fogged with the steam from his shower. If he were at home, he’d be wearing his favorite loungewear—the ugliest pair of sweatpants Shiro’s ever seen, paired with a clashing graphic tee depicting some meme Shiro doesn’t understand—but here his clothing selection is limited, and he’s only wearing one of Shiro’s shirts.

Shiro keeps his eyes above chest level.

Keith looks at him as he approaches. He’s already wearing foundation, which Shiro assumes he applied blind. There’s streaks of it in the front of his hair. “Your fan sucks.”

“You could take cooler showers,” Shiro says, leaning against the doorframe. “Just a suggestion. It’s better for your skin, too.”

Keith scowls and looks half a second away from running him through with the concealer wand.

Shiro smiles. “Kidding. I know it sucks. I usually shower with the door open.” He takes the concealer from Keith’s hand and opens it, then tilts Keith’s head up with a knuckle. “Stay still,” he says.

Keith blinks, a question in every line of his face, but he obediently keeps his head up and stares with wide eyes as Shiro applies the concealer over his bruise with a practiced hand.

“ _Shiro_ ,” he says. “You’re doing my makeup from now on. How could you keep this from me?”

“Because I knew you were going to be a brat about it,” Shiro says, recapping the tube. “I’m your bodyguard, not your makeup artist.”

“Who says you can’t be both?”

“I say.”

“I’ll pay you double.”

Shiro rolls his eyes as he taps in the concealer with his finger. “You’re not paying me right now. Your mom is. Besides, you can’t just throw money at everything.”

“Why not?”

Shiro doesn’t dignify that with a response. “I don’t even have a cosmetology degree. I probably shouldn’t be touching your face right now. I might get fined if someone finds out.”

“Ha ha ha,” Keith says, but he sounds pleased. “So you used to do makeup on yourself, then? Were you a model? You’ve got the looks for it.”

Shiro doesn’t think so, but it’s flattering to hear from Keith. “I wasn’t a model.”

“Instagram model counts.”

“No.”

“Figured. I would’ve heard of you if you were,” Keith says, completely serious in a way that makes Shiro flush. “Hm. Youtuber?”

“No.”

“Small-time actor?”

“Stop moving.”

“That’s not a no.”

“No.”

“Big-time actor?”

“Keith.”

“Nightclub performer?”

“I’m not you.”

“Drag queen?”

He laughs. “People don’t need a reason to wear makeup, you know. Not everyone has to be looking for a moment of fame.”

Keith looks unconvinced.

“Tilt your head for me,” Shiro says as he picks the eyeliner from the bag of makeup on the counter.

Keith has years of experience of having makeup put on him, and he’s moving his head into position before Shiro even finishes the words. He sits quietly for one eyelid—Shiro decides to give him a little wing for good behavior—then he says, “How about just after this, then?”

The sentence doesn’t make sense to Shiro’s early-morning brain. “What?”

“Can you fix my makeup for me?” Keith says. “After we… you know.”

It’s oddly endearing to realize that Keith is the kind of person who can shamelessly offer sex, but is too embarrassed to discuss it in proper terms afterwards.

“We are doing this again… right?” Keith says, small and completely misreading Shiro’s hesitancy. “Earlier… you said there’d be a next time?”

Shiro softens. “We can have as many next times as you want.” Shiro points the eyeliner at him. “But no more schemes to get my attention, okay?”

Keith nods, though he doesn’t have the grace to feign guilt. “What about you? What do you want?”

Shiro isn’t sure how honest he wants to be. He finishes lining Keith’s other lid and sets the makeup down before answering. “You,” he says. There’s little left to lose here. “I want you. However you’ll have me.”

Keith’s quiet, and Shiro feels unsettled under his gaze. He picks up the tube of mascara for something else to focus on, and Keith moves his head into position without saying a word. Keith’s lashes are naturally curled; it’s simple and quick to apply a layer of mascara on top. Keith takes it all in silence, as he took the rest of it—without even asking Shiro what he’s doing or how it looks.

This, Shiro realizes, is a different kind of trust altogether. The kind of trust Keith needs more of in his life.

“Hey, Shiro,” Keith says as he’s recapping the mascara. “I…” He trails off, biting his lip.

Shiro places the mascara back on the counter. “What is it?”

Keith looks away, then back. “You’re… I…” He trails off again, looking frustrated. Shiro stays quiet as he works through it. After a moment, Keith reaches up to pull him down for a kiss. It’s different in the morning light, free of the desperation and adrenaline and unbridled want of the night before. It’s quiet. Sweet. Intimate.

And it’s longing, at least on Shiro’s part. A kiss to kiss, and not as a prelude or epilogue to some other act. A main event, all on its own. The kind of simple intimacy he wishes could last forever.

Their parting is as soft as their joining, a gentle release of pressure that leaves them looking into each other’s eyes.

“Don’t leave,” Keith whispers into the space between them. “Just—please. Don’t leave.”

Shiro curls his fingers in the back of Keith’s hair. “I won’t.”

Keith’s young and lonely; Shiro’s safe.

If that’s enough to make Keith happy, then it’s enough for him.

It’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/ailurea) // [website](https://ailurea.carrd.co)


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